One Dead, Two to Go

By Elena Hartwell

This mystery featuring a crime-fighting mother-daughter duo is “smart, page-turning fun, with the most feisty and likable P.I. since Kinsey Millhone” (Deb Caletti, National Book Award finalist).

When private investigator Edwina “Eddie Shoes” isn’t fending off surprise visits from her troublemaking mother, she’s spying on cheating husbands, hoping to land hefty divorce settlements for their heartbroken wives. But when the latest mistress Eddie captures on film dies—and Eddie realizes she’s the last person who saw the woman alive—things begin to take a twisted turn. It doesn’t help that the detective on the case is her ex, Chance Parker, who’s none too happy with the way Eddie left things between them. So when Eddie’s mom, Chava, unexpectedly shows up on her doorstep, Eddie’s actually glad to see her for a change. Because there’s no one better acquainted with the criminal mind than her card-shark of a mother. And now that Eddie’s in deep with the dangerous crowd, she’s going to need all the help she can get . . .

“Private eye Eddie Shoes and her cardsharp mother plunge the reader into a tale of fractured relationships, mayhem, and thrills.” —Deborah Turrell Atkinson, author of the Storm Kayama Mysteries

“The writing is cinematic and vivid, the characters well-drawn, but the dynamic between Eddie and Chava, which reminded me fondly of Cagney and Lacey, is what makes the story. Fans of the Stephanie Plum series by Janet Evanovich should definitely check out One Dead, Two to Go.” —Max Everhart, author of the Eli Sharpe series

“A fast, memorable and entertaining read.” —Scott Driscoll, author of Better You Go Home

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Sep 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781504089364

Elena Hartwell

Elena Hartwell has spent years supporting writers and constructing stories. Her award-winning and bestselling works include the Eddie Shoes mysteries and All We Buried (written under Elena Taylor). Her plays have been seen around the US and UK, garnering critical acclaim and stellar reviews. As a developmental editor, she has worked with hundreds of writers, most recently as senior editor and director of programming for the boutique editing house, Allegory Editing. She regularly teaches writing workshops and enjoys helping others achieve their writing dreams

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Call me Eddie Shoes.

Not a very feminine moniker, but it suits me. My father’s name was Eduardo Zapata. In a fit of nostalgia, my mother Chava named me Edwina Zapata Schultz, even though by the time I was born she hadn’t seen my father in seven months. Edwina was a mouthful to saddle any child with, so at the ripe old age of six, I announced that I would only answer to Eddie. I didn’t have any nostalgia for a guy I’d never met, so Zapata just seemed like a name no one ever spelled right the first time. Chava wasn’t particularly maternal in any conventional sense, so not a lot of nostalgia for Schultz either. At eighteen I legally changed my name to Eddie Shoes.

It said a lot about my sense of humor.

Chava and I had come to an understanding. She stayed in my life as long as our contact was minimal and primarily over email. It was just enough to allay her guilt and not enough to make me crazy, so it worked for both of us. She’d always been down about my choice of career, but what did she expect from a girl who called herself Eddie Shoes? If I hadn’t become a private investigator, I probably would have been a bookie, so she should have been a little more positive about the whole thing.

My career was the reason I sat hunkered in the car, in the dark, halfway down the block from a tacky hotel, clutching a digital camera and zoom lens, waiting to catch my latest client’s husband with a woman not his wife. I’d already gotten a few choice shots of the guy entering the room, but he’d gone in alone and no one else had arrived. I assumed the other woman was already waiting for him. After tailing the guy for a few days, I had a pretty good guess who the chippie would turn out to be. I didn’t think he’d hired his office manager for her filing skills, and sleeping with the married boss was a cliché because it happened all the time. I could already prove the man a liar. He’d told his wife he played poker with the boys on Wednesday nights, and I didn’t think he was shacked up in this dive with three of his closest buddies, unless he was kinkier than I imagined.

But then, people never ceased to amaze me.

December in Bellingham, Washington, often brought cold, clear weather and that night was no exception. Starting the engine to warm up sounded tempting, but I didn’t want anyone to notice me sitting there. Nice it wasn’t raining, but if the thermometer had crept much over twenty, I hadn’t noticed. To make matters worse, I’d scrunched my almost six-foot frame down in the driver’s seat for more than two hours. Even with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, I was half frozen, and desperately hoped my mark didn’t have more stamina than I’d pegged him for. All I wanted was to go home and go to bed.

And at some point, I would need to pee.

Up on the second floor, the door of the hotel room I had my eye on finally opened. I brought my camera up, ready for the money shots. My earlier pics proved that the dirty white stucco on the side of the building bounced the pale glow from the minimal exterior lights enough for pictures to be clear without a flash. Even from this distance, there was a nice unobstructed view of the location. The only barrier between someone standing on the narrow walk and my camera lens was a flimsy, rusty-looking, wrought-iron railing. The balusters looked too thin to stop anyone from falling the height of the first floor to the asphalt parking lot below. I doubted anything at the tawdry place passed code.

But what did I care? I wasn’t going to stay there.

The liar—I have always been creative with nicknames—stepped out, straightening his tie. I snapped a few pictures and held my breath, hoping the other woman would come out behind him. Even if I took pictures of her exiting a few minutes later, the husband needed to be in the picture with her. A surprising number of wives would argue with me about what actually took place in these various, if interchangeable, hotel rooms. For some reason they would rather believe the info about their husband cheating was fake than admit he strayed, which confused me because I got paid either way. It felt especially crazy when they must already know the truth, otherwise they wouldn’t have hired me in the first place. But I knew better than to look for logic in the ways of the human heart and got the best evidence possible.

The man turned sideways. Light from the room behind him threw his face into silhouette. He had an exceptionally generous head of hair, which made him very recognizable even in bad light. Mid-forties, and mostly in good shape, he appeared athletic as long as he didn’t unbutton his sport coat. I could see why women were attracted to him, though he didn’t do a thing for me. I preferred men a little more honest.

But then, I’d never been married, so what did I know?

A figure moved from behind him into the shadow of the doorway.

Come on, honey, step out into the light. I held the camera to my eye. One more step, so I can see your face.

The woman obliged by leaning into the cold blue glow cast by the old style, energy inefficient streetlights, her cheeks stained red in the flash of the vacancy sign. I happily clicked away as the office manager wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered sweet nothings in his ear. She clearly wore nothing but lingerie. She must assume no one else would be out this late on such a cold weeknight. Or maybe she enjoyed having people see her, a bit of an exhibitionist in the happy homewrecker. Whatever the cause, she had him in the perfect spot for the best pictures.

I loved it when guilty people made my job easy.

My photos might not be art, but they were gold in my book. No way the wife could believe this was anything other than what it looked like.

Several photos later, the husband extricated himself from the mistress and she ducked back into the room and closed the door. He walked briskly toward a shiny red Chevy Camaro. The guy owned a GM dealership and drove a new car every day. He lit a cigarette, which he puffed on for a few drags before he tossed it into the gutter. Not just a cheater, a litterer. The bastard. The cigarette stench backed his poker party story and covered the smell of another woman, killing two birds with one cancer-causing stone.

As soon as he pulled out onto the street, I stretched back up to full height, relieved to still feel my feet. I started up my ancient green Subaru Forrester, cranked my heater, and headed for home, relieved I didn’t have to wait around in the cold for the mistress to reappear. Whatever she did next wasn’t my concern. Having the two of them in the pictures together convinced me my work was done.

The hotel was located downtown—the blue-collar north end, not the high-priced, brick, historical south end, so I dropped down to Lakeway Drive, scooted under the freeway, and wound through the streets that curved around Bayview Cemetery. Traffic at ten o’clock on a midweek winter night was light, and I arrived at my little house by ten-thirty. I downloaded the photos from the hotel onto my computer, wrote up a final bill for my client, and went to bed content.

What could possibly go wrong with such an easy case?

CHAPTER TWO

After my late-night activities, I celebrated by sleeping in past seven-thirty. With no alarm clock shrieking for my attention, I enjoyed a few extra, luxurious moments in bed. I considered texting my client for a meeting but decided to hold off until I’d gotten myself fully awake. Heading to the kitchen, I turned on my coffee pot and contemplated Kendra Hallings. Dealing with angry wives can be a lot of work, but it beat dealing with angry husbands. I don’t take on angry husbands as clients. I did that once when first starting out on my own, but after receiving incontrovertible proof that his wife had cheated on him, the fathead tried to kill her.

That kind of took the fun out of things for me.

Then and there, I vowed to stick to female clients when it involved cheating spouses. They were less likely to go postal on their wayward hubbies. They went for the jugular, but usually not in a literal sense, more in a financial one.

After fortifying myself with coffee and cornflakes, it was time to face the music. Kendra had already proven herself to be a crier—she could turn on the waterworks quicker than a soap opera diva—so delivering her the news that her wifely instincts were correct would be a challenge. I stripped off my nightshirt and pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, layering it with a plaid, flannel shirt from the Cabela’s Sporting Goods catalog and a North Face jacket. Buying my clothes online or from Costco cut down on trips to malls, boutique stores, and other places that gave me hives.

Sufficiently bundled for the weather, I grabbed my camera and laptop and headed over to my home away from home. My office was in a free-standing building between the historic Fairhaven neighborhood and downtown to the north. With a population of just over eighty thousand Bellingham—or B’ham as we abbreviated around here—wasn’t exactly a sprawling metropolis. Driving across town didn’t produce the headache it might in places like Seattle or Tokyo or Syracuse, so I bought my house without concern for the commute.

The fact it came without a view of Bellingham Bay also saved me a big chunk of change. The water views much of my town afforded were spectacular, but given my income, I had to settle for a view of the trees and bushes in my backyard. Lookout Mountain was visible from my driveway, so that counted for something. A tiny trickle of water also ran along the east side of my property. During spring rains and snowmelt, it could probably be called a creek.

That’s almost as good as a water view, right?

My office wasn’t much to look at either, but it was mine, and that counted for a lot in my book. It had easy access to the freeway, Fairhaven, and downtown, complete with the waterfront and multiple tattoo parlors. I’d never had call to use the services of the latter, but you never knew, it could happen. Rocket Donuts was also nearby, with their distinctive aluminum rocket ship in the parking lot. And who doesn’t love donuts and sci-fi mixed together under one roof?

One of the best things about my office was a small parking lot with a second entrance at the back of the building. My clients could come and go without being seen from the street. There was no big sign announcing my services. Private investigators don’t usually get work from foot traffic. My office maintained a certain anonymity. When I opened my own business, I’d briefly thought about installing an espresso machine to get people in the door, but PI and Espresso sounded a little hokey. I’m not sure anyone else would have found it strange here in the coffee capitol of the United States but, Do you want extra foam with your background check? felt like a bit much. Luckily, I managed to stay afloat without adding barista to my résumé.

Probably a good thing. I drank too much coffee already and I would have sucked down most of my profits.

No other cars sat in the parking lot this early in the morning. The business currently sharing the building with me was questionable. Their hours were even more erratic than mine, but at least they were quiet. The sign in the window read TAROT but I had a feeling the young women who came and went there didn’t actually read cards so much as provide happy endings. I guess good fortune was all in how one thought about it. The employees might not be able to predict anyone’s future, but at least they provided an actual service.

The setup of the building created a lot of privacy for our respective clients. A hallway split the building in half, so we didn’t share any walls. From the street, my office was on the left and the Fortune Tellers were on the right. Both offices had small kitchenettes and private bathrooms attached, and given the reasonable rent, I didn’t care if they made crack cocaine next door as long as they didn’t burn the building down.

I unlocked both outside doors, the one to the street in front and the parking lot in back, anticipating my client would arrive soon. Then I unlocked and entered my Shangri-La. Pausing momentarily, I admired the EDDIE SHOES, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR sign painted in black and gold lettering on the frosted glass of my interior office door before I slipped inside, just because it made me happy.

It was often the simple things in life that brightened my day, so I tried hard not to overlook them.

Sitting behind my desk, I pulled out the drawer where my active files were easily accessible. They’d get archived into the locking filing cabinets behind my desk after I finished with them and then stored for seven years before being converted to an ash pile. Or at least that was the plan. I hadn’t actually been in business long enough to permanently dispose of anything yet. Pulling out my file on Mrs. Kendra T. Hallings, I went to make coffee before contacting her. I hadn’t had quite enough caffeine at home.

Before reaching my coffee maker, my office phone rang. My cell could handle all my calls, but I also had a good, old-fashioned landline that I couldn’t quite get myself to give up. I wouldn’t have to pay for the cost of having one, but something about that black, Bakelite antique perched on my desk symbolized that I had made it on my own. I had an office and a phone. Who could argue with success like that? Besides, I loved the little clicky sounds the rotary phone made when the dial spun. Sometimes, when I was bored, I pretended to answer the phone in my best Humphrey Bogart imitation à la Philip Marlowe.

I hadn’t answered an actual call that way yet, but maybe next year for Halloween.

It was also the only thing I’d brought with me from the office I’d shared with my mentor, Benjamin Cooper. It comforted me that my hand rested where his had for so many years, no matter how he’d died.

Picking up after the second ring, I turned on my professional voice.

It was my client. Her breathing sounding like hyperventilation. Eddie? It’s me, Kendra. I tried your cell, but it went straight to voicemail, so I thought I’d try your office. I’m just wondering if you have anything for me yet.

Hi, Kendra, I was just about to call you. Pulling out my cell, I could see I’d left it silenced from the night before. I turned my ringer back on, relieved that the little voicemail icon showed only the one call from Kendra.

Good news or bad? she asked.

Jeez, how should I answer that?

Can you come over to my office?

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

Was I right? Her voice turned small and tremulous.

I think we should talk through things in person. She deserved sympathy for her situation, even if I did think she’d be better off dumping the lout.

Really? Kendra asked, or at least that’s what I thought she said between sobs.

You sound upset. Do you think you can pull yourself together?

I’m …—hiccup—I’m …—sob—okay.

I waited, listening to her breathe in and out a few times. Her loud breathing sounded like a technique she might have learned to do in meditation or yoga.

Yes, her voice stronger after much huffing and puffing, but I can’t be there until later this afternoon. I have some things I need to do. Will three o’clock work for you?

I assured her it would, and she hung up before I could give her a, you go, girl, which was probably just as well. She might have heard it as sarcasm. I plugged in my computer to organize the photos downloaded the night before. I’d already started to set up a slideshow to ease Kendra into the situation, opening with shots of her husband at the dealership with the office manager in the background. Nothing overt, but I wanted my client to have the woman’s face in her mind when she saw the photos from the hotel. I had known there would be a hotel.

There was always a hotel.

I finished the slideshow by adding the images of her husband pulling up in front and then him leaving a few hours later along with the shots of the mistress kissing him goodbye.

The guy really did have great hair.

Voices sounded in the hallway. Perhaps Kendra had arrived early and brought a friend for moral support. I opened the door before she could knock, surprising a man with his arm raised. He had turned away, so I was lucky he didn’t tap, tap, tap on my chest before he realized the door no longer stood in front of him. Even in profile, however, I would have recognized him. It had been almost two years since I had last seen him, before I left Seattle after Coop died.

In a panic, I did the only thing that made sense in the moment.

I slammed the door in his face.

CHAPTER THREE

The loud pounding shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

After all, the police weren’t used to people slamming doors in their faces, and that’s who I’d just locked out of my office.

Eddie? What the—? Open the door. Chance Parker’s voice hadn’t changed. It was still low but carried a weight to it like every word he spoke mattered. I leaned against the glass with the hope my heart wouldn’t leap out of my chest and splatter on the ground at my, or worse yet his, feet.

The next rap was a knuckle on the glass instead of the wood frame of the door. The sharp sound of it pulled me out of my panic, and I wrenched the door back open. Just like ripping off a bandage, best to get it over with quick.

Sorry about that. I thought I heard the phone ring, I said, my response inexplicable even to myself.

The woman with Chance looked at me like I might be certifiable; he just looked amused. I’m not sure which expression annoyed me more.

Mind if we come in? We have a few questions for you. It was clear that Chance wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

The we included Detective Kate Jarek, who introduced herself and said, I understand you two know each other.

We do. I looked Chance to see if he planned to fill me in on what he’d told her about our history.

Chance rubbed the side of his cheek as if checking for stubble. It was an action I remembered well—an unconscious gesture he made when he didn’t know exactly how he wanted to respond. Chance was careful with his words, as if they were valuable and he might accidentally drop one he couldn’t afford to lose.

Down in Seattle. His eyes held mine, and for an instant I thought he might say more. Something was there in the softness of his gaze, but that brief moment of connection passed, and he glossed over a complicated relationship with that single sentence.

I told myself he couldn’t have done anything else. As good as it would have been to hear he forgave me, now wasn’t the time.

Maybe we could see each other again soon. Alone. And I could find a way to make amends.

Come on in. I stood aside to let the two of them through the door, shutting it behind them, and taking a deep breath before turning around to face them.

Chance began to pace, his nervous energy filling the room. From the way he averted his gaze from the two of us, I knew his mind was focused solely on whatever brought him to my door. I respected that about him. His attention would be directed at you for a moment—intense, all consuming—then he’d turn outward again, as his work took precedence.

Chance was taller than Kate by at least six inches. He stood just over six feet, so I